PAPAYA

I have your words, that you put down on paper,

but nothing at hand to return, so I write down

papaya

. I cut one open: so many

dark points, so many undefined things.

You said you love papaya, but how do I know

you haven’t changed since you said it?

Every time I bring one home to the refrigerator

you are not around. Is language the problem

or papaya? I can only choose

among the greenish-yellow skins;

I have to respond to that greenish-yellow skin

before knowing what you expect inside.

Can’t we trust inside is sweet melon flesh?

It’s only common sense. Then we cut it

and see only seeds that you hate.

You say it’s better to find nothing,

better to avoid complications you can’t get rid of.

They are hard to get hold of, slippery. They shoot everywhere.

Better not to get entangled. Better just don’t say

so many words. Let’s have our papaya without words.

Sure, but there’s still this stuff in the mouth

that we chew and spit out: papaya.

Immediately you protest that one word too many;

its skin is motley and its pulp thick with suggestions.

Forget it, then; I only want to make time,

to dine on papaya with you. I can’t help it,

all the past papayas we’ve had are, of course, in this one too.

Slice it and here we are again, in a world of fresh seeds.